The Bad Man | Page 3

the pert and
lovely little Angela--who lived up to her name only once in a
while!--was his own flesh and blood. It was as incongruous as though a
rose had grown on a beanstalk.
On their very first meeting, Gilbert had not been pleasantly impressed
with Hardy. But he soon saw that the man had a certain rugged strength,
and there was no doubt he had suffered from the depredations of
Mexico's casual visitors, and was ready to protect not only his own
interests but those of any newcomers. He seemed to have the spirit of
fair-mindedness; and he believed firmly in the possibilities of this
magic land, particularly for young men. "It's God's country," he told
Gilbert on more than one occasion. "Get into the soil all you can.
Dig--and dig deep."
He said this over and over. It ran like a refrain through every
conversation he had with anyone. He preached the gospel of labor. And
he did work himself; there was no shadow of doubt as to that. He had
struck oil himself, and had made a goodly extra pile. Now, unknown to
young Jones, he was casting envious eyes on his ranch; and when the
war came and Gilbert went overseas in a burst of fine patriotism, and
later came other disasters, he was quick to snatch his opportunity.
Why go to Bisbee, he told Jones, to see who would take up his
mortgage? What were neighbors for, if not to come in handy in such
unpleasant emergencies? And he laughed.
The long and short of it was that Hardy took an option on Gilbert's

property, and held it at this very moment. It was better so, thought
Gilbert. Better to be foreclosed by a friendly neighbor, who might
hesitate to drive one out at the last moment, than under the thumb of
some unknown individual way down the valley.
Four years of it--and he had come to this! Well, he'd take his medicine
like a man. He had done his best, and no one could do more.
CHAPTER II
WHEREIN, FAR AWAY, ANOTHER MAN HEARS WHISPERS OF
THE WEALTH ALONG THE BORDER, AND COMES DOWN TO
SEE ABOUT IT
Up North there was a man with a jaw like a rock, and hard, steel-gray
eyes. He had his fingers on the pulse of business, and employed agents
everywhere to serve his interests. His office in New York, in the heart
of the great financial district, was like a telephone exchange--he the
central who controlled the wires, put in and drew out the plugs, and
played the fascinating game of connecting himself with any "party" he
thought worth while. A shrewd, inveterate gambler, he was without
scruples. He lived for one purpose: to make money. For one person:
Morgan Pell.
There had been whispers concerning his methods. They were often
questionable, to say the least; but, like all men who work quietly
beneath the surface of the world of business, Pell covered up his tracks
with as much genius as he displayed in consummating a big deal. There
should be no loose ends if he was ever charged with corruption. Down
in his soul he knew he was a coward. He could not face disgrace, any
more than he could face the guns of battle. If his pillow was not always
a restful one at night; if he tossed more than he should at his age--he
was but thirty-eight--no one knew it. His conscience smote him now
and then. In his earlier days he had tricked a widow and caused her to
be separated from her last penny. Afterwards, he learned she had
committed suicide. He shuddered. In fact, he suffered a little for two
long years. Then he forgot about her. Life was life, and though it

played unfairly with some, to others it gave beds of roses; and after all
we were but puppets of fate, and each must take his chances, and not
complain if he did not hold the winning hand. There were only so many
to go around. A lottery--that's what it was. And just as people left a
card table, a few widows and orphans had to clear out of the big
gambling-hall of life. It was as plain as day.
To a man like Pell, a wife was a necessity--but only a secondary
consideration. Of course he must marry, keep up an expensive ménage,
and prove to the world that he was successful even where women were
concerned. He must give his wife the proper background, do all the
necessary things; furnish the right setting for his jewel. Children? Bah!
They were not essential. He had no paternal instinct whatever. Enough
that he should support in luxury and affluence the woman he deigned to
make his wife, and entertain in his